The Treasure of Zaelion
by Kara Green
Summary: Follows the general story line of Galactik Football, but with a twist. 'When Aarch came to Akillian in the hopes of recruiting a crew that would accompany him to find the long lost Treasure of Zaelion, he didn't anticipate to be stuck with seven snot-nosed teenagers who didn't know the first thing about managing a ship.'


**This is proof that Treasure Planet, Galactik Football and tea are a bad combination. This fic will follow the general story line (as far as I know). Short start, but it's 8:30pm and I still have two essays to write for tomorrow; have mercy on me! Rating is K+ for now, but may go up. Enjoy!**

* * *

When Aarch came to Akillian in the hopes of recruiting a crew that would accompany him to find the long lost Treasure of Zaelion, he didn't anticipate to be stuck with seven snot-nosed teenagers who didn't know the first thing about managing a ship. Thank goodness he had Clamp to keep him sane... And alive, if their skills at driving a space ship were anything to go by. He leaned back in his captain's chair and massaged the bridge of his nose, sighing in despair; he had practically dropped to his knees and pleaded with Norata to let Rocket come with them, given that he was the only one of these inexperienced children capable of managing the crew as a second-in-command. His baby brother, though, wouldn't be having any of it out of fear that his only son would abandon him like his brother and wife, or die on the job.

"What a joke," Aarch grumbled, "there's nowhere safer in this galaxy."

An explosion racked the ship, causing the chandelier above his desk to jingle with a large spasm. With a heavy sigh and an insult concerning the ability for his teenage crew to complete a simple task properly, he heaved himself out of his chair and trudged towards the source of the explosion.

* * *

"I'm in charge of the cannons, half wit!"

"Well you're not doing a good enough job; they don't just go off at random intervals when they're working properly!"

"It's not my fault this ship's too damn dysfunctional!"

Tia watched Sinedd and D'Jok go at each other's throats, much like they had been doing for the past few days they had actually been travelling through the galaxy. These people were seriously starting to get on her nerves. Could they not complete their duties without firing a very large and destructive metal ball into the gravity-free atmosphere? This had been going on all morning; which was rather unfortunate for her, as she happened to be on watch duty, on the very same deck as them. She glanced to the side when she heard shuffling, and was not at all surprised when a very disorientated and sleepy Micro-Ice emerged from below deck, rubbing his eyes with a large yawn.

"Good mornin' Tia."

"It's noon."

"Good afternoon, Tia," he smirked, eventually noticing the quarrelling boys argue about a still-smoking cannon, "Sinedd on cannon duty?"

"Yes. And you're supposed to be scrubbing the deck with Thran."

He waved his hand dismissively and leaned back on the steel wall to watch the show, still smirking, because he just knew that Sinedd was going to get in trouble for this.

"D'Jok! Sinedd!"

The enraged captain of the ship stormed towards the two disruptive teenagers, causing them to stand at attention, awaiting the rebukes and enraged screams directed at them. After all, they had both just wasted a perfectly good cannon ball and gave away their position.

"What are you doing on my poop deck?!"

The three boys sniggered at the obscene name, bringing a purple tinge to Aarch's face.

"Well?!"

"C-Cannon duty," Sinedd chuckled.

"And you, D'Jok? Didn't I assign you to the kitchen with Ahito?"

"I... I err-"

"Will spend the rest of the afternoon scrubbing this poop deck while Micro-Ice takes over for you in the kitchen. It needs a good scrub."

The boys burst into full blown laughter, claiming that he was doing this on purpose. Tia winced as she saw an approaching ship, black and sleek, with the signature emblem on the mast.

"Captain; Smog Express dead ahead!"

Aarch could feel a headache coming on; Artegor, his friend gone rival, had taken up command of the crew of the Smog Express following the loss of the entire Red Tigers' Crew, who, Genesis rest their souls, didn't make it past their first mission (a simple delivery of ammunition the the Pirates of Unadar). The spiked, sleek hair approached, the sunglasses coming into view as Artegor stood smugly on the bow of the ship, giving the command to dock The SS Breath (he really needed to come up with a better name for this ship) and saluted to Aarch in a mocking manner.

Oh, damn it all to Wamba.


End file.
